


Head Over (Grantaire's) Heels

by cx_shhhh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: And a security guard or whatever, Bets & Wagers, Enjolras Being Enjolras, Grantaire is a stripper, M/M, Mutual Pining, Stiletto Heels, Strippers & Strip Clubs, it happens for like a second, not a cop though because acab, trigger warning for Grantaire calling himself names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28174647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cx_shhhh/pseuds/cx_shhhh
Summary: Enjolras has a few opinions about the not-so-subtle art of stripping, and Grantaire has more or less of a plan to kill two birds with one stone. Fun times ensue, and neither of them have any idea of what they're getting into.(Basically, this is a challenge on how sexy I can write a fic without there being any sex.)
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	Head Over (Grantaire's) Heels

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, [Jolee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarkestnightwillend/pseuds/thedarkestnightwillend) was my Glorified Unofficial Official Beta in this mess and the one who wanted this in the first place. Was I pleasantly surprised? Yes. Definitely.
> 
> Special thanks to [mandilorian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandilorian/pseuds/mandilorian) for reading this over because the amount of research I actually did about stripping is limited to fanfic I've read in the past.
> 
> Go check out both their works and stuff.

“Studying law is cramping my style, babes. I should become a stripper,” Courfeyrac says as he throws himself across Enjolras’s lap at The Musain. It’s a very Courfeyrac thing, to toss himself into conversations. Literally. Enjolras rolls his eyes and pushes him off, eliciting an indignant squawk.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not coordinated enough to become one. ”

A voice Enjolras is all too familiar with pipes up from the back, “Hey, don’t knock it until you try it, Ange.”

Grantaire’s grin is all too smug, almost like he knows something Enjolras doesn’t. He will admit that the art of taking off one’s clothes while simultaneously writhing around on a pole to some sultry music or whatever is not something he’s the most familiar with. In fact, he might have been a bit too harsh on the whole matter in the first place, but Enjolras isn’t known to eat his words once they leave his mouth.

“I just have a problem with the inherently imbalanced power dynamics between the clients and the dancers. We live in a world where ‘the client is always right’ and when the commodity is someone’s body. It’s just not really the ideal situation,” Enjolras retorts back. He somewhat hopes that Grantaire would just laugh and go back to whatever he was talking about with Joly and Bossuet, but alas, the most infuriating person alive always makes it his goal to get a rise out of him.

“Okay, O High and Mighty, let’s see how much good you do on those bold words of yours,” Grantaire snarks back, sitting on the table in front of Enjolras. “Let’s make a bet. Do you consent?”

Enjolras looks up from the way Grantaire’s skin-tight jeans stretch across his thighs and replies, “Depends on the stakes.”

“Mhm, well, first _you_ need to go find a strip club and get a job. For at least a few hours a day. Not as a stripper, obviously. I’ve seen the way you dance at Courf’s gatherings.”

“Then what would you recommend?” Enjolras asks, one eyebrow raised skeptically, pointedly ignoring the jab at his own expense.

“If you’re so concerned about strippers, I quote, ‘selling their bodies,’ then you should make sure that nothing happens to them,” Grantaire smiles slyly and adds, “You’re one of the smartest people I know, Enjolras. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Enjolras huffs, “Fine. And you?”

“I’ll just be minding my own business, as per usual-”

“Ha, as if.”

“-and watching with glee when you get scared off. If you still hold the same opinion, I’ll accept defeat, and you’ll get to revel in the fact that I am wrong. If I finally get through and manage to change your mind, I win, and I get one thing of my choosing from you,” Grantaire finishes. He holds out a hand, and Enjolras, against his better judgement, shakes it. He knows that he’s the one with higher stakes, as he actually has to step out of his comfort zone and literally go get another job. However, he’s determined to prove Grantaire wrong about _something_.

Grantaire floats back over to his own table, seemingly swinging his hips more than usual, and Enjolras turns back to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, both of whom had fallen silent during the whole exchange.

“Well? Am I fucked, or am I fucked?” Enjolras sighs. He’s usually pretty optimistic about many things, but he knows when he should accept defeat.

“Probably, but I love drama, so you should go for it,” Courfeyrac responds enthusiastically, patting him on the shoulder.

Combeferre interjects, “He needs to find a strip club first. And then apply for a position. Thankfully, your workload has drastically lightened up since you first started with Lamarque. Otherwise, it would’ve been impossible to accept.”

Enjolras just sighs again, but his forehead makes contact with the table this time, a loud _thunk_ echoing his frustration.

“Ooh, I might have an idea of where you can go!” Courfeyrac exclaims loudly and suddenly, causing Enjolras to wince. “There’s this place a few streets away. The Corinthe, I think it’s called. I’ve passed by a few times on my daily commute, but never actually gone in because they’re usually closed in the morning and afternoon. As one should expect.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t ‘hmm’ me, Monsieur Enjolras. You should believe me! It doesn’t look back-alley or anything, so it should satisfy your tastes,” Courfeyrac huffs, punching Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras relents, trusting his friends.

“Ugh. Here goes nothing.”

* * *

Quite frankly, Grantaire forgot about the bet roughly a week after it was sealed. All the way up until a few months later when he’s reminded of it as suddenly as a douse of icy water. It’s just any random Saturday night that this occurs, but he missed the previous night’s shift, so he has to make it up somehow.

Grantaire clocks in and waves at Éponine and Floréal before slipping into his changing room. The air conditioning blasts onto his skin when he sheds his sweater and jeans, causing him to shiver. Socks get replaced by stockings that get clipped to garters, and he kicks off his boots unceremoniously before stepping into green satin stilettos. He stretches a few times, releasing a groan of relief when he sinks into the splits. Getting up and sitting at the vanity, he rifles through his cosmetics bag and pulls out a few items. Makeup comes easily to him, as he prides himself on being pretty good with painting a variety of canvases.

A few minutes later, Éponine pokes her head in without any warning and whistles at Grantaire, who blushes and smiles.

“Wow. Your audience is going to keel over collectively. What are you wearing under that?”

Grantaire pulls the waistband of his tight shorts down, just enough to give her a glimpse of a bare hip crossed with a few stripes of dark green velvet. He smirks and says, “Just enough.”

The Corinthe is a respectable establishment. Grantaire could be forced into garish outfits or stupid roleplay attire, but instead, he gets classy options and expensive lingerie. For a stripper, it’s not bad at all. He’s also thankful for the fact he doesn’t have to wear ridiculous platform heels, not because he can’t balance in them, but because they make his feet hurt and don’t really do anything for him.

There’s applause as he walks, no, _struts_ onto the stage and gets introduced as Zephyr. Don’t blame him for the cheesy name; he has a thing for the classics. The music starts, some sultry tune that’s on Grantaire’s performance playlist, and he grasps the pole in one hand. Living up to the name he chose for himself, he pulls himself up until he gives the illusion of walking on air. He notes the many eyes on him as he first flips himself upside-down, his top riding up and exposing a sliver of his torso. And then the actual stripping happens, each piece of clothing taken off slowly until he’s left only in his underwear.

It’s not until his strappy thong is stuffed with dollar bills that Grantaire smiles winningly at the crowd, picking up his discarded clothes and bowing. He feels an intense gaze, one much more so than everyone else’s, and looks up in curiosity. All of a sudden, Grantaire is burning up inside, and the breath has been choked out of him. He really should’ve thought this through a bit more. In fact, he never should’ve made that bet in the first place. Oh, why couldn’t he ever keep his mouth shut?

Grantaire knows he’s in love with Enjolras. It’s simply one of his defining characteristics. He rambles, can be flexible, and is in love with Enjolras. This fact cannot be helped, and it is made worse by the fact that apparently they share a place of work. Grantaire lets his eyes take in Enjolras in his _uniform_ , and, fuck, he regrets this even more now. He just wants to collapse in a corner and moan about how attractive the man is and how much he hopes Enjolras doesn’t recognize him. If he’s truly as good at makeup as he thinks he is, then eyeliner and lipstick should be more than enough.

Éponine pinches his butt when he walks backstage, and he squeaks, turning around and glaring at her playfully. She shrugs and says, “It’s a nice butt. I’m jealous.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and replies, “Yeah, it makes money. Speaking of, I gotta go do that now.”

He pulls on his shoes and shorts and makes his way back to the floor, where he’s immediately waved over for a lap dance. The patron is reminded not to touch, and Grantaire does as he promised. There’s nothing really thrilling about shaking his ass for some random person in the audience. In fact, he doesn’t quite like it as much as pole dancing, and the only person he would willingly give a lap dance to is technically part of the security detail and definitely not about to pay money for one.

About three lap dances in, Grantaire is really feeling it in his thighs and to be fair, his current performance is a bit lackluster. The man whose lap he’s in, who introduced himself as “Le Cabuc,” really can’t be blamed for reaching out and grabbing him by the waist, causing him to yelp in surprise. However strong he may be, Grantaire and his sore muscles aren’t really a match for the strength of this man.

Fortunately, in a flash of blond hair and a red button-down shirt, Grantaire finds himself freed of the stranger’s grasp. Unfortunately, he ends up face-to-face with Enjolras, blue eyes flashing and biceps straining. _Fuck_. 

Grantaire gets up as quickly as possible and hurries to the back before he can do anything stupid in his befuddled state, like hitch a leg up around Enjolras’s waist and beg for a kiss. In his hurry to escape, he doesn’t notice Enjolras’s eyes linger on him when he disappears. 

The girls both latch onto him on either side when he opens the backstage door, and grin slyly. Floréal coos at his red face and murmurs, “Well well well. Looks like our little breeze noticed the new hire. Shame you work Friday nights and usually miss him.”

Éponine pokes Grantaire’s cheek and teases, “Aww, are you already considering switching shifts in that pretty head of yours? I wouldn’t blame you. Ange is quite handsome after all.”

That catches Grantaire’s attention, and he asks, “Ange?”

“Yeah, that’s what he requested to be called. Says it’s a nickname,” Floréal shrugs, and Grantaire is exponentially more distraught now. What is he supposed to do with the information that Enjolras willingly uses the nickname he gave him, albeit mockingly but definitely more loving than anything?

He tries to say something, but all that comes out is, “Hnggg.”

Éponine kisses his flushed cheek and pats his head while cooing, and Floréal slaps her hand away, chiding, “Be gentle, he’s gay.”

Some more dying noises come from Grantaire, and maybe he should quit altogether.

* * *

A few days after that fateful night, Enjolras sits at his table in the back room of The Musain and doesn’t feel productive at all. He swears that he has been staring at the exact same line of text for ten minutes now without retaining any information, but all he can think about are blue eyes made even more vibrant by cosmetics. And cherry red lips that glistened in the neon lighting. And lean thighs and a firm a-. That’s enough. He refuses to degrade anyone, even a stripper, anywhere including in his own private thoughts. Zephyr, as he had called himself, consumes his thoughts at night, and Grantaire pushes himself into Enjolras’s bubble whenever they’re at The Musain together.

Suddenly, as Enjolras is gathering his papers together for their next meeting, the doors to the back room slam open, and Courfeyrac marches in. Enjolras looks up and has to do a double take because Courfeyrac is wearing a skirt. Honestly, he shouldn’t be so surprised, but this truly came out of left-field.

“Nice makeup, Courf. Who did it for you?” Enjolras asks when he perches on top of their table, crossing his legs demurely.

“Gasp! I’m offended you don’t deem me talented enough to do it on my own!”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and points out, “You’re so gay, you can’t draw a straight line, so I sincerely doubt you’re able to draw a perfect… wing? Is that what it’s called?”

Courfeyrac huffs, “Well, you’re gay too. And also correct. R did it, the amazingly talented little shit.”

Enjolras inspects the glittery eyeshadow and feels like he recognizes the shape and the style. _Zephyr_. He quickly pushes that thought away and distracts himself with the mental image of Grantaire in makeup and a skirt. _Wait, no_ , Enjolras furiously shakes his head, dispelling all thoughts of lovely dark-haired men with blue eyes.

The meeting has already started when Grantaire decides to make an appearance, late as usual. Any words about to leave Enjolras’s mouth automatically die in his throat. The only thing he can process at that moment are _legs_. A pair of very nice ones. Combeferre clears his throat, and Enjolras scrambles a little to find where he had abruptly left off. Grantaire is in a pair of the tiniest denim shorts known to man, shaved legs crossed primly, and wearing an extremely smug grin.

The rest of the meeting flashes past in a blur, words ringing and echoing in Enjolras’s mind. He really needs to sit down. Joly comes over and sets a glass of water down in front of him, talking about headaches and how horrible they can be. Enjolras, not really wanting to expose himself, hums in agreement and downs the drink.

Feeling centered again, Enjolras chances a glance up and immediately regrets that decision. He thanks every being in existence that he had swallowed that mouthful of water because otherwise, it would be all over his papers. In his perfect line of vision, Grantaire is leaning against the counter, casually chatting with Musichetta. However, his pose is completely unnecessary. There is absolutely no excuse for him to be arching his back and pushing out his butt in that manner. Enjolras can’t help but trace the lines of his calves and thighs, elegantly sculpted, and follow them all the way up with his eyes. Grantaire’s shorts do nothing but emphasize the soft swell of a firm and nicely rounded ass.

“Fuck,” Enjolras mutters.

“Fuck?” Courfeyrac asks, amused.

_“Fuck.”_

Grantaire saunters over, hips swaying, and Enjolras honestly can’t be blamed for asking, in his muddled state, “Aren’t those shorts a little inappropriate?”

“Ooh, judging my choice of clothing, aren’t we? I thought you were all for ‘dismantling gender roles’ or something along those lines,” Grantaire replies with a playful downturn of plush lips that Enjolras most definitely does not want to bite at.

“No! I mean, yes? I just don’t think that showing that much skin is necessary. Unless you’re being attention-seeking, as per usual.”

Grantaire frowns, “Are you calling me a slut? A whore, perhaps? Please, enlighten me on why Courf gets to wear a skirt and makeup, and you, I don’t know, call it nice or whatever. But when I feel confident in my own skin for once and wear what I want, I’m only ‘attention-seeking’.”

Enjolras is dumbfounded, he mentally reviews what he realizes how terrible it all sounded. He reaches out, as if to catch his wrist to apologize, but Grantaire yanks his hand out of the way and stands up straight.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just being overly dramatic, as per usual,” Grantaire mutters before giving Joly and Bossuet kisses on their cheeks and marching out the door.

If Enjolras was a mess an hour ago, he is even more of an emotional disaster now. Where do all these words come from? It’s like his tongue automatically stops working in Grantaire’s presence, and it’s simultaneously distracting and frustrating. The man is vibrant, lovely to talk to, and Enjolras can’t help but listen to every word that comes out of his mouth. As a result, he spends the rest of the week drowning in his despair at the idea that Grantaire might never forgive him.

On Friday night, Courfeyrac demands to be taken to Enjolras’s place of work. Enjolras does so begrudgingly and forces Combeferre to suffer with him. At the last minute, he grabs his red sweater to protect against the chilly night air.

Enjolras shoos his friends into a booth in the corner where hopefully they can observe without being spotted. Of course, Courfeyrac whines and insists on getting closer, but Enjolras plants his ass stubbornly in his seat and refuses to get up. The view is perfect from where he’s located. He can see the girls, whom he’s chatted to a couple times, onstage and doing a duet. When they leave, the room darkens and quietens, waiting for the next act.

A woman’s voice fills the air, low and sensual, and the lights on the wall turn a dark red. Caressing the pole is none other than Zephyr, who easily pulls himself up and around it, defying all laws of gravity. Enjolras nearly chokes on his spit. He knows the man is attractive, beautiful, but he shouldn’t be affected as much as he is by someone he hasn’t even talked to. Still, he’s captivated by creamy skin that gets exposed little by little and the stark contrast the black lace makes against it. Thick curls flop against the stripper’s forehead as he changes poses, and vaguely, Enjolras wonders how it would feel to run his hands through his hair.

All too soon, it’s over, Enjolras is stunned silent yet again, hands tight around his drink, and Courfeyrac lets out a quiet whistle when he sees the expression on his face.

“Damn. I didn’t know this was all it took to get Enj to shut up. Aren’t you supposed to be used to people being ninety-percent naked by now?”

Enjolras glares at him and answers, “He only comes on Friday nights, and I work on Saturday nights. I’ve only seen him once before.”

“Ooh, so you _know_ him,” Courfeyrac teases, ignoring Combeferre’s labored sigh.

“If you can call very brief eye contact and me having to stop him from being grabbed by a random stranger, ‘knowing,’ then yes, I suppose.”

Combeferre pushes his glasses up, light flashing across the lenses as he smirks, “Ah, so you’re like his knight in… some sort of armor.”

Enjolras feels betrayed by both his best friends and huffs, “That implies he isn’t able to protect himself. I’m just here as extra security.”

Courfeyrac claps his hands to get their attention again, “Details, details. I’m just curious how this ‘Zephyr’ managed to capture our dear leader’s eye after just one meeting. Weren’t you the one disappointed by Marius and his so-called love at first sight?”

“I’m not in love! And even so, Marius managed to fall in love with a lesbian, so sucks for him.”

Courfeyrac tuts and changes the subject, “Anyway, I think you should get a lap dance from him.”

“Marius?” Enjolras asks incredulously.

“No, silly! Our favorite stripper, of course.”

Enjolras whips his head to the side just to see the man himself, in all his mostly nude glory and forces Courfeyrac’s hand down. Courfeyrac squirms, but Enjolras doesn’t let go, instead distracted by how the stripper’s makeup enhances or possibly even hides his facial features. His red lipstick makes his lips look as smooth and plush as velvet.

When Courfeyrac complains that his grip is too tight, Enjolras lets go and hisses, “This is just work! There is nothing going on between myself and Zephyr. I’m not even attracted to him”

He raises his head back up and hates that he looks right into Zephyr’s blue eyes. Those eyes are wide in shock, and Enjolras racks his brain because he’s almost certain he’s seen them before. As quickly as those eyes widen, they turn cold, and Zephyr turns his head away, moving to the other side of the main room. His heels make his steps seem more like struts, and the click of them on the solid floor echo like a countdown in Enjolras’s ears.

Without a second thought or heeding the exclamations from his friends, Enjolras suddenly gets up and heads for the backstage area, where he nods at his colleagues. He promises not to do anything stupid, and one of the girls, Éponine, narrows her eyes at him. She’s one of Zephyr’s friends, Enjolras recalls, and that expression of hers makes him want to discover what he did that was so offensive.

He finds his way into the hall with all the changing rooms and is pleased to see that the one belonging to Zephyr has his stage name on it. He knocks, and the door swings open a minute later, bringing him face-to-face with the person he’s looking for. Oh, and he’s naked save for his heels and black panties. Enjolras opens his mouth to speak to the man in front of him, possibly for the first time since he started working at The Corinthe.

* * *

“Zephyr.”

Grantaire doesn’t immediately recognize that Enjolras is referring to him, and blinks for a moment, feeling a little dizzy from suddenly being in such close quarters with him. He pitches his voice higher and softer and replies, “Yes?”

Enjolras continues, “You look cold.”

Grantaire does a double take because of all things he expected him to say, it was definitely not that. In fact, it sounds more like a criticism of his clothing choices, which is something Enjolras _would_ give him. Wow, this seems familiar. Grantaire knows he should just ignore him and let himself fall out of love. Enjolras clearly has no interest in him, so surely it’s time to give up, right?

Instead, he raises an eyebrow and repeats, “Yes? And?”

“Fuck. Sorry, that came out bluntly. Just, do you need a jacket?”

Grantaire rakes his gaze over Enjolras’s form and nods, “Are you offering?”

Enjolras steps closer, causing his eyes to widen fractionally. They’re so close, Grantaire can smell the light citrus cologne on Enjolras’s collar. His shoes give him some extra height, but still, he curses Enjolras’s tall frame because even with the boost, he’s forced to tilt his chin upwards.

Grantaire is honestly surprised when Enjolras grabs the hem of his own sweater and tugs it off, causing his thin T-shirt to ride up. He holds it out to a gaping Grantaire, who takes it in trembling fingers. He’s shaking a little, too emotional to speak. When he does manage to find his words, he says, “I can’t take this. It doesn’t match my outfit.”

Enjolras looks at him incredulously and asks, “You think I care about your _outfit?_ ”

That’s met with a pout and a few choice words of, “Hey! I spend time picking them out, and even if you don’t appreciate them, I’m sure someone does.”

“Perhaps. Well, maybe I enjoy the idea of you wearing my clothes, and again, it’s up to you,” Enjolras relents, holding his hands up in surrender. 

As an act of defiance and still glaring at him, Grantaire pulls the soft sweater over his head, dark curls bouncing when they pop out of the neck. The hem falls against his thighs, and immediately, he’s enveloped in warmth and a sense of safety. He also feels a bit ridiculous, standing in his own changing room in literally nothing but a pair of extremely revealing underwear, some velvet stilettos, and a bright red sweater, which is soft and extends past his fingertips, and _oh_ , smells like the man he’s painfully in love with.

Grantaire thinks he’s going to cry, so he hurriedly thanks Enjolras, who’s openly staring at him, and closes his dressing room door. He leans against it, doing nothing but shoving his nose into the collar of his newly acquired sweater and breathing in the scent of cologne and Enjolras. He thinks he can hear him breathing from the other side of the door and presses his hand against it, desperately yearning to feel not the unforgiving wood barrier between them, but a warm hand against his own. He laments how easy it is to forgive Enjolras, even if the man didn’t know he was supposed to be forgiven when he handed his sweater over.

Later that night, Grantaire wiggles around in bed, trying to find the most comfortable position to sleep in while still in Enjolras’s sweater. He’s only wearing that and a pair of boxer-briefs, and the feeling of comfort that surrounds him is overwhelming. He presses his face into his pillow and brings his hands up to his face, rubbing the sleeves against his cheek. He whimpers, still marveling at how large the sweater is on his frame. Grantaire imagines he’s being surrounded by Enjolras, and that’s how he falls asleep. In his dreams, Enjolras is there, pulling him close against his chest and allowing him to snuggle in closer.

* * *

Moping. That’s what Enjolras is doing. No, he won’t admit to moping because he does enjoy being efficient at the best of times, but some things can’t be helped. Firstly, Grantaire is probably still angry or annoyed at him, and secondly, his favorite sweater is now in the hands of someone he’s talked to a total of once.

_For a worthy cause_ , he reminds himself. The man was wearing pretty much nothing, and Enjolras wasn’t sure whether or not he actually brought an outer layer to work. He exhales deeply and shuts his laptop, certain he isn’t going to get anything done. There’s not much he can do other than wait for his friends to arrive and bring him some much needed conversation.

Feuilly and Bahorel slip into the chairs on either side of him, and he looks up in surprise. Enjolras acknowledges their presence with a nod and asks, “Not that your company isn’t welcome, but is there something you want to talk about?”

Bahorel grins and replies with a question of his own, “How’s your part-time job going?”

This makes Enjolras raise an eyebrow and reply, “It’s fine. Most of the audience is pretty respectful of distance and whatnot, so I mostly just stand in the corner and keep an eye out.”

Feuilly leans forward, eyes glinting, “And what of the actual performances?”

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to get at here, but they’re interesting people. I admire their core strength.”

Bahorel and Feuilly snort in sync, which Enjolras supposes must be a thing people do once they’ve been dating for a while. Feuilly pats him on the back and says, “Nah, we’re just curious because six months should be more than enough time for you to make up your mind. Especially if you’ve been working at The Corinthe.”

Enjolras tilts his head in confusion and asks, “Why? Is there something special about that place?”

Bahorel’s grin turns into a knowing smirk, and he replies in a sing-song voice, “Oh, not some _thing_ , but some _one_. Anyway, this has been fun, Enj, but we’ll leave the rest to you.”

Six months _is_ a long time, especially for someone who never really planned to get a job as security. It also took him a while to obtain the position, but he keeps going back for some unknown reason. It’s like the club has a magnetic pull on him, and he willingly returns week after week. Or maybe it’s Zephyr, who likely has no idea of his effect on Enjolras and how much of an impact one conversation with him has.

He runs a hand through his hair and tries desperately to figure out how he suddenly went from pining after nobody to pining after two different people. With Grantaire, it’s easy. Actually, “easy” is definitely not the word to describe it because every single one of their interactions ends up in one argument or another. From something as trivial as clothes apparently to everything wrong with the world.

Joly’s voice interrupts Enjolras’s thoughts, “R?”

Grantaire rushes in, breathless and asks, “Hi, yes. I hope I’m not late, uh, nobody here is allergic to cats right?”

Enjolras, to say the least, is a bit surprised that Grantaire bothered to arrive on time, early even. He stands up and interjects, “I think Combeferre has meds for that. Don’t tell me you have cats on your person right now.”

Grantaire huffs and pointedly averts his gaze, “If I don’t tell you, does that count?”

Enjolras just rolls his eyes and watches in dismay and a little bit of smothered affection as Grantaire reaches inside the collar of his turtleneck sweater and pulls out three tiny kittens. How he managed to fit them in there, Enjolras has absolutely no idea, but the pitiful mewling is enough for him to pull out a chair at Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet’s regular table.

He can only sit there and stare as Grantaire brings the kittens to his chest and murmurs soft words into their fluffy ears before kissing their small heads. Enjolras feels betrayed and slightly trapped because Grantaire looks all sweet with his cheeks slightly red from the cold rain outside. Nobody tells Enjolras’s heart to feel fond, but it does, and the one thing he desires is to wrap Grantaire up in his softest blankets and tuck him close, preferably also petting his hair.

“Ah, why do you have them?” Enjolras dares to ask, interrupting the warm atmosphere. He has to physically restrain himself from reaching out and tilting Grantaire’s chin back up when he lowers it, almost nervously.

“One of my neighbors’ cats just gave birth to them, and I just _had_ to take them in. Ange, you have no idea how weak I am for their adorable eyes… but I didn’t want to be late because I needed to talk to you, and you also hate it when I arrive in the middle of your meetings or even at all sometimes. Oh God, why am I rambling?” he cuts off with a deep inhale, and Enjolras definitely knows how he feels because he could never resist those blue eyes looking up at him imploringly either.

“You wanted to talk to me?” is the only thing Enjolras can say in his befuddled state. He has no idea what Grantaire could possibly want. One thing he does know is that he could never hate being graced by Grantaire’s presence and witty mind. _Ever_.

“Oh! It’s not anything pressing, but I’d just like to apologize for, uh, last time,” Grantaire looks down. “If I made you uncomfortable or whatever.”

Enjolras feels horrified and like a sorry sack of dicks because he has no idea why Grantaire is apologizing at all. He hovers a hand over Grantaire’s shoulder, the habit of not touching anyone ingrained in his soul, and murmurs, “Please don’t apologize. If anything, I’m sorry. That was rude of me, for who am I to decide what you can or can’t wear?”

Grantaire smiles, and that causes Enjolras’s breath to catch. He looks up, eyes shining, and replies, “Oh, don’t worry. You were already forgiven.”

Like this, Enjolras decides that Grantaire looks too pretty, hair fluffing up from the humidity and cheeks rosy. A mew forces his train of thought off a cliff, and he feels tiny claws hook into his shirt. Without really thinking about it, Enjolras touches the kitten’s fuzzy back and allows it to nuzzle into his hand. Vaguely, he thinks he hears some choking noises come from Grantaire and debates looking up to ask what’s wrong, but the kitten has his undivided attention.

“I think we should call her Lucifer,” Grantaire announces. “She’s ruthless, seems particularly attached to Ange, and seems to have him in her grasp already?”

Enjolras just smiles and scoops her up to his chest, so he can feel her purr. Grantaire, having shifted, is incredibly close, and his hair smells like flowers. Enjolras is not sure what kind of flower, but it reminds him of spring… as flowers generally should…?

The rest of the hour is spent being distracted by the kittens, and Enjolras willingly lets it go since he is equally as enraptured as his friends. Finally, he forces himself to stand up to get some more work done.

Enjolras isn’t sure how much time passes when he finally shuts his laptop, but he can overhear Grantaire’s conversation with Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. He looks up in curiosity because they are not even trying to keep their voices low.

“-and he gave you his sweater?” Enjolras hears Joly ask. He feels jealousy as a bolt of lightning striking through his chest. It’s completely irrational as Grantaire is his own person, but seeing him smile shyly and his face flush pink makes his heart hurt exponentially more.

Enjolras clenches his fist in his jacket, determined to block out their conversation for the sake of his own sanity. Grantaire is free to like whoever he wants, and Enjolras should put his own feelings aside for once. It’s ridiculous, truly, and a little selfish for him to find himself falling in love with someone who likes someone else while simultaneously desiring the company of someone he has interacted with a grand total of twice.

On Saturday night, Enjolras opens the back door to The Corinthe and smiles at the familiarity of it all. He will admit that Grantaire might be right in their little bet for once. Everyone is friendly, the shows are jaw-dropping, and the dancers seem to defy gravity.

“Please welcome The Corinthe’s favorite, Zephyr!”

Enjolras, surprised because he doesn’t usually perform on Saturdays, lifts his head to the main stage and dies a little inside. He honestly should have known that at some point, the stripper would wear a skirt. It’s green, plaid, and barely reaches mid-thigh. The entire outfit would seem gaudy, but he makes it work. A white blouse with a black ribbon, stockings that climb up his thighs, and black heels adorned with bows. When he twirls, Enjolras gets an eyeful of demure white lace. Zephyr’s face is made up in a similar aesthetic: pink blush, even though Enjolras knows he doesn’t need it, mascara that makes his lashes seem infinitely longer, and a sweet curl of dark hair falls teasingly over his forehead.

When the stripper is left in nothing but his underwear, Enjolras feels _something_. Sure, there’s an undeniable lust as Zephyr is undeniably sexy, and the confidence he holds himself up with is truly attractive. However, Enjolras just wants to give him his entire closet to ensure that he’s warm. Most of all, he wonders what the stripper is like under all that makeup in both face and character.

“Ange!” 

Enjolras stops at the sound of his nickname, paired with the sound of hurried footsteps. He turns around, half-expecting Grantaire from the sound of his name, but just gets a pile of red fabric shoved in his arms. Zephyr, sweat beading his forehead in exertion quickly exclaims, “Hi, just wanted to return this, thanks, gotta go, bye!”

The sweet timbre of his voice is something Enjolras could recognize from a mile away. It’s clear and pretty, and that paired with those large blue eyes force something in his mind to click. He raises his own sweater to his nose and sniffs, not to be creepy or anything, but the scent that floods his nose is, without a doubt, the same one that came from Grantaire’s hair that day. It’s ethereally floaty but quickly becoming intoxicating. Bahorel’s words from earlier and Courfeyrac’s makeup suddenly make sense.

“Oh my fucking God.”

* * *

“R.”

Grantaire whips his head around, eyes wide. Thankfully, he’s alone backstage when his name, his real name, gets called, and he can’t help but panic a little. He curses his own stupidity and carelessness. Of course Enjolras would find out eventually. It’s damn near impossible to keep a secret from him, let alone one that stems from both their places of work.

“Enjolras,” he replies in a small voice, taking a step back. If there’s one thing he truly hates, it’s confrontation. There’s a time and place for that, which is at The Musain when he’s wearing significantly more clothes.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras repeats, taking a step forward. “Is there a reason you didn’t want me to know?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath, “Well, what was I supposed to do? Announce that I’m actually a stripper when you already had such a low opinion of them? Of me?”

“I had no idea, R. I… don’t think I ever hated you. Ever. You’re annoying sometimes, sure, and for some reason, you enjoy contradicting everything I say, but you’re smart and I could never hate that,” Enjolras says gently, and that causes a balloon of warmth to rise up in Grantaire’s chest.

The next thing he knows, he’s being smothered by a familiar red sweater, and he lets out a squeak, “Wha-”

“Forgive me, but you were shivering.”

Grantaire, now thoroughly flushed and significantly warmer, parts his lips to say something but is immediately distracted by the tiny smile on Enjolras’s face. Instead, he asks, “So how _did_ you manage to figure out that I’m me? And I thought I was being subtle, jeez.”

Enjolras’s grin widens, and he bends down to whisper into Grantaire’s ear, making him feel dizzy, “You smell like flowers.”

“Goddamnit, Éponine! She gave me perfume and said something about it being symbolic. It’s hyacinth scented. Why am I even friends with her? This whole getup was of her choosing too. _Stupid schoolgirl vibes or whatever_ ,” Grantaire mutters.

Enjolras merely hums and flicks the bow lodged in his curls, still respectfully not touching a single hair on his head. Grantaire wishes he would just break the one rule of this club and offer a hug, which he knows he’d accept in a heartbeat.

“Don’t blame Éponine. You're the one who forced me to listen to your voice a multitude of times, so I recognized it right away when you weren’t purposefully pitching it higher or anything. I’m not complaining, though.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, blushing a little.

Enjolras continues, “I rather enjoy listening to you too. You have a lovely voice, and you always have something smart to talk about.”

Grantaire isn’t sure what to do with this information at all. On one hand, he’s extremely flattered that Enjolras likes listening to him ramble, but on the other, he’s speechless for once.

“Um, thanks. Anyway, I have to get ready for the second, less desirable part of this evening, so if you’ll excuse me,” Grantaire mumbles, pushing past him.

Enjolras interrupts him and asks, “I’ll see you at The Musain? And here next week?”

Grantaire blushes again at the notion that Enjolras would like to see him and nods before dashing away in a flurry of clicks. He makes sure to let Éponine know to change his schedule permanently, so he can work Saturday nights.

The next time they’re at The Corinthe together, Grantaire has a sneaky little plan. He wants to push Enjolras to the point of admitting that he’s right, and maybe, just maybe, Enjolras might agree to the reward he has in mind. Grantaire quickly pulls on tear-away leather pants over the lingerie he chose specifically for tonight. They’re high quality and tight, but still stretchy enough for him to do the splits easily. He calls Floréal to his dressing room, and she whistles appreciatively.

“Will you help cinch me up?” Grantaire asks, indicating to the corset. It’s a green satin with black lace lining and really not the most uncomfortable to wear.

“Sure, but I gotta admit, this is pretty out there, even for you, darling,” Floréal remarks and then gives him a shit-eating grin. “Are you trying to impress someone?”

Grantaire lowers his head and replies, “Perhaps. Now, does my butt look good in these pants?”

Éponine barges in, nearly falls over at the sight of him, and says, “I heard voices, and yes, you _know_ your butt looks good in anything. Or nothing at all. Now do your makeup quickly because you’re on in twenty.”

Grantaire stands up, slips on his heels, also green satin, and indicates to Floréal to help him.

“Damn, boy, your waist is snatched! I have no idea how you’re even breathing, much less how you’re going to dance, but please, if you’re gonna faint, do so in the arms of your security person.”

“Don’t worry about me, babe. I practiced,” Grantaire teases, placing his hands on his hips and pointedly ignoring the second half of what she said.

A disguise in the form of cosmetics is not necessary this time, but he still applies eyeliner and mascara with a steady hand and red lipstick so dark it nearly looks black. His whole ensemble makes him feel like he’s toeing the line between feminine and masculine with one high-heeled shoe.

The stares Grantaire receives when he steps out into the spotlight is enough to tilt his chin up higher until his eyes are the same level as Enjolras’s from where he’s standing in the back of the room. Enjolras, ever expressive, looks absolutely gobsmacked, and Grantaire just has to lift one corner of his mouth in a half smile. If that doesn’t boost his confidence levels through the roof, nothing would, so he grabs onto the pole and swings himself up, holding himself in a gravity-defying pose before doing a little walk in mid-air.

The corset goes first as he’s upside-down and clinging to the pole with his thighs, fingers not even fumbling on the clasps, and Grantaire lets it drop to the stage. The pants go next, but not before he teases the audience with the first sight of a bare hip. In a blink of an eye, he whips them off and pulls himself up until he’s perpendicular with the pole, bare legs in a split that’s perfectly parallel with it. The audience applauds wildly, and he tosses a grin to the crowd. When his heels are safely back on the floor, he leans against the pole and stretches out the edge of his lace panties out to collect bills.

* * *

Let it be known that Grantaire is not good for Enjolras’s health. At all. He prides himself for his pretty solid self-control, but there are some things that just set him off. In the most negative sense, politics, but in the most positive sense, Grantaire. And he’s relentlessly pushing at Enjolras’s limits. One would assume more than six months of watching him dance is enough for him to become immune to the man’s wiles, but he continues to surprise him, time and again.

Enjolras can only watch in undisguised awe at the agility and flexibility and strength Grantaire displays in this routine. It’s more acrobatic than the previous ones Enjolras had witnessed and shows off his best assets. The corset gives him an exaggerated hourglass figure and the pants. _The pants_. They cling to every curve of his legs. The heels push his ass up and out, and when he strips himself of his pants and turns around, Enjolras desperately wants to bite at it. It’s round and firm and perfectly presented to the audience.

As easily as anyone can, Grantaire flips himself upside-down and balances himself with his hands on the stage and the pole between his elegantly curved legs. Enjolras kind of wants to be that pole. While he previously had very little appreciation for the art of stripping, watching Grantaire forces him to quickly reconsider. Onstage, he looks beautiful, confidence rolling off of him in waves, and Enjolras notes that he only bears witness to that when they debate.

Enjolras begins to see how the Grantaire who takes in kittens and wears him down with his words blurs with the Grantaire who wears makeup and speeds up his heart rate, one performance at a time. It’s almost like he’s two sides of the same coin, except the coin is made of the most dazzling metal, so vibrant that the sides don’t really matter, and Enjolras really needs to stop with these stupid metaphors in his head.

To put it simply, he is madly in love with Grantaire and needs to tell him that right away. It’s a little weird how many times Enjolras dashes to the changing rooms in the past few weeks, but it’s the most likely location to find Grantaire.

Stopping at the very familiar hallway, he gets knowing smirks from both Éponine and Floréal. They each place a kiss on both of his cheeks, and Éponine mutters, “Be kind to our boy, will you?”

Enjolras merely nods in agreement and replies, “Cross my heart.”

Thankfully, Grantaire opens the door right when he knocks, still clad in black lace and those heels. For a moment, Enjolras wonders how he even walks in them, but then he remembers that he’s probably trained extensively and is used to it at this point. Enjolras isn’t even sure how to start or what to say, and honestly, he’s ready to give up anything and everything just to take the man in front of him into his arms and give him a hug or a kiss or even both.

“Oh, hello, Ange. Did you want something?” Grantaire asks before leaning against the door frame.

“I have something to tell you,” Enjolras blurts out, briefly getting distracted by all the skin still exposed.

Grantaire looks up at him, almost expectantly. He’s smirking, almost as if he predicted this moment, “Mhm?”

Enjolras looks into Grantaire’s blue eyes, lost for a moment in how gorgeous they are and how he didn’t recognize them immediately, lined with black liner and emphasized by the mascara that darkens his already thick lashes. 

He looks at Grantaire, lost in how he somehow manages to possess all the elegant ferocity and strength of Zephyr, the West Wind, when he performs while simultaneously being the epitome of soft and adorable when he wears sweaters with sleeves that extend past his fingertips and cuddles his cats.

He realizes there’s nothing for him to lose if he just… gives in and admits defeat. If Grantaire wants to humiliate him in front of their friends, he would take it gladly just because he was just _so wrong_ in his earlier claims. Enjolras was ready to proclaim his love to him, but telling him something else might be the necessary first step.

“I suppose you win, R. What do you want from me?”

“A kiss.”

* * *

Grantaire, quivering in excitement, leads Enjolras by the hand to one of the private rooms in the back. It’s all a bit ridiculous, especially for one kiss, but he wants it to be perfect and just for the two of them. The journey is silent save for their soft breaths and the clicking of Grantaire’s heels on the laminate floor. He pushes Enjolras onto the bed, and delights at how willingly he goes. Grantaire wants to draw this out for as long as possible, so he slowly climbs onto Enjolras’s lap, one bare leg on either side of his waist.

Grantaire decides that there are few things he enjoys more than being in Enjolras’s lap. In fact, it might currently hold the number one spot of most enjoyable activity in his book. Enjolras dutifully doesn’t move to touch him, the first and foremost rule of the club heavily binding. Instead, he stares at him, piercing blue eyes strictly remaining on his face. Grantaire almost wishes that they would roam and take in every corner of his body. He knows that Enjolras despises rules and breaks them on a daily basis, but he knows that if there’s one that he would uphold without hesitation, it’s the one that keeps Grantaire safe from the wandering hands of lustful patrons.

A chilling thought strikes Grantaire. What if Enjolras is only complying because he lost their bet? What if Enjolras- _no_ , he thinks. He’ll cry if he continues down this train of thought. If Enjolras is uncomfortable about upholding his end of their wager, he would say so, right? Grantaire certainly wouldn’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want to just as he’s sure Enjolras wouldn’t do anything that makes him feel uncomfortable.

“No touching,” he reminds, unnecessarily. Enjolras only hums in affirmation and tightens his grip on the bed sheets.

Grantaire focuses on the man in front of him, trapped between his thighs. He presses himself up, feeling shame burn through his body. He’s only clad in some skimpy black lace and his green stilettos while Enjolras is still in full uniform (and looks damn good in it). Grantaire lifts his right hand and wills it to stop shaking. Looking through lowered lashes, he places a finger on Enjolras’s cheek and trails it down a high cheekbone before moving on to his defined jaw. His other hand makes its way to Enjolras’s chest, from which he can feel the rhythm of his heart, strong and grounding. Enjolras is stupidly handsome, and Grantaire is stupidly in love with him.

Enjolras exhales and closes his eyes, and Grantaire pretends that he’s doing it because he’s feeling the moment and not because there’s the slightest chance he doesn’t want to look at him. He leans in close until they’re sharing the same air. Before he can chicken out of it, Grantaire closes his eyes at last and touches his trembling lips lightly to Enjolras’s, the pressure so gentle that he can barely feel the contact. It’s sweet, overwhelmingly so, and he has to try not to cry because he isn’t deserving of such tenderness, such love. He wants to stay like this forever, but he only allows it to last for a second.

Grantaire pulls away, feeling uncharacteristically shy, but only gets one foot back on the ground when Enjolras calls his name. He lifts his head and tilts it questioningly, “Yes?”

“Never mind.”

There’s the tiniest feeling of hope worming its way to Grantaire’s heart. He presses, “No, please tell me.”

Enjolras sighs and relents, “I won’t touch you. That would go against everything I came here for in the first place.”

“But what if I asked you to?” Grantaire whispers. He doesn’t move, afraid of ruining whatever Enjolras is thinking of. He isn’t brave very often, but he has high hopes for once.

Enjolras searches his eyes for any hint of doubt and asks, “Then may I kiss you again?”

“Oh, thank God. Yes, of course,” Grantaire replies in a whoosh of a breath, and he gasps when Enjolras suddenly pulls him close again with a warm hand on his waist, sealing their lips together firmly. Grantaire feels himself melt against Enjolras’s solid form and opens his mouth in invitation. The warmth that courses through him comes from all the spots where Enjolras is touching him.

If their first kiss was tender and sweet, this one is passionate, devouring him, and when they separate, Grantaire blushes at the sight of some of his own lipstick smeared all over Enjolras’s mouth. The sound that comes out of his mouth is something of a combination between a moan and a whimper, and he just has to wind his arms around Enjolras’s neck to kiss him again. It’s intoxicating, and Grantaire decides that he can do this forever.

“I am so glad I lost our bet,” Enjolras says later, when they’re cuddled together in Grantaire’s bed. Grantaire’s back in a comfy sweater and underwear that actually covers his ass. A kitten purrs from somewhere on the pillow above them.

“Oh? Does that mean I get to announce to the others that I was right this whole time?” Grantaire mumbles from where he’s tucked under Enjolras’s chin.

“You already got what you wanted, sweetheart,” Enjolras replies, dropping a kiss into his hair. Grantaire just raises his head and widens his eyes, lips turned down in the most pleading pout he can manage. It has the desired effect because Enjolras rolls his eyes in fond exasperation.

“Fine. But don’t look too smug.”

Grantaire snuffles and cuddles closer, craving the warmth of the man he’s desperately in love with. He’s feeling rather emotional and a little tired, so he can’t be blamed when he says, “Mmm, no promises. I love you.”

A second later, he’s fast asleep, and just barely feels a gentle kiss pressed to his forehead.

* * *

As it turns out, Grantaire does announce it to the rest of Les Amis and even stands on a table to do so. Enjolras only sits and smiles at the wide grin stretching across Grantaire’s face. He looks bright and energetic like this, and it’s easy to see how Grantaire at work is easily the same as him with their friends.

Grantaire is wearing The Sweater of Fate, as they had lovingly dubbed it, tucked into Those Shorts That Drive Enjolras Nuts… as they also had lovingly dubbed them.

_(“When you said ‘attention-seeking,’ you really meant, ‘I can’t stop staring at your ass,’ didn’t you?”_

_“I will neither confirm nor deny that.”_

_“Aww, well, you might as well call me a hoe. A hoe for you at least, so I’ll wear those shorts whenever you want me to~”_

_“Oh, speaking of, how did you manage to get my sweater to actually smell like you?”_

_“... definitely not by sleeping in it every night and wishing it was you.”_

_“Fuck, you’re cute.”)_

Enjolras is being overwhelmed by so much love for the man gesticulating wildly in front of him that he has to stand up and tell him, “Y’know, I think you rigged the whole thing. You knew I would fall in love with your sexy ass from the beginning. Oh, and your charming personality, of course.”

Grantaire’s lovely blue eyes go wide, and for all the grace he possesses, he manages to trip on the edge of the table. Thankfully, Enjolras has better reflexes than many people give him credit for and catches him. Grantaire releases a tiny “oof,” but quickly recovers, kicking his legs up and wrapping arms around Enjolras’s neck before bringing their lips together for a quick peck.

“How is it that you’re able to speed-walk in those ridiculous heels, but manage to trip when you’re in flat shoes?”

“I got caught off guard! You love me after all!” Grantaire exclaims.

“I love you,” Enjolras agrees and captures Grantaire’s lips again to kiss him soundly, disregarding the fact that they have a very eager audience. The Musain breaks out in wolf whistles and cheering, and Enjolras presses his lips to his boyfriend’s cheek. Grantaire gazes into his eyes adoringly from where he’s still in Enjolras’s arms and sighs happily.

“Would you look at that? I seem to have fallen for you, my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my Tumblr [here](http://cx-shhhh.tumblr.com/)! I post a lot of memes and stuff, so maybe something will catch your interest. Feel free to send me an ask or rant about how adorable Grantaire is.
> 
> Here's a series of pictures of [the heels Grantaire wears ](https://cx-shhhh.tumblr.com/post/637954421641330688/itll-all-make-sense-in-time-i-promise) throughout the story. I really have no idea why I thought this was necessary, but I saw the first one and thought, "This just screams 'Grantaire'."
> 
> In addition, join the [hoes for enjolras](https://discord.com/invite/vERrqvA) server on Discord because they're all lovely people.
> 
> General housekeeping: kudos and comments are always welcome, but that's completely up to you!


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